i'm death, i come to take the soul
by Anera527
Summary: Mary jumped in front of the bullet to save Sherlock's life; it's dumb chance that John may lose them both anyway.


A/N: This is not a happy fic. Fair warning. Alternate ending of The Six Thatchers; it's a oneshot at the moment, but I may add on if enough interest is in seeing it continued.

~/~/~/~/~

The hospital is a blur of images and far-off noises, convoluted and perplexing. There's a ringing in John's ears and a hand brutally clasping at his heart and with every breath he can feel his chest hitch as he struggles to find some equilibrium. No tears, though. He hasn't cried for two years and he doesn't feel like he can do so now.

There's no one beside him right now, and it almost makes him want to laugh. He's a bloody doctor- he was a fucking _soldier_, damn it- and he's _helpless_. He's done the best he can with what little he had on hand, and now he's useless in every way. He can't keep himself together. His hand is trembling worse than ever and his knees are weak.

(blue blue on the walls on the floor reflected from the tanks and the bright red blood is ghastly dark on a grey shirt and black coat so much blood so much blood)

"...should be sitting down, John." The voice is insistent but he can't find the desire to even lift his head. There's a pair of expensive leather shoes in front of him. The tip of an umbrella taps at the tiled floor.

Droplets of blood have fallen in a sparse array there and he wonders where it's coming from; and then he sees the tacky red on his hands and he remembers.

_Kill two birds with one stone._

He's never fully appreciated that saying before, never before understood its sinister edge, and quite suddenly he finds himself starting to laugh. It's rough and painful and not entirely sane but it's all he can do; it really is hilariously ironic.

Leather-gloved fingers grasp painfully at his arm and the voice sharpens to a knife's blade. "_John_. Look at me. _Now_."

(blue eyes staring sightlessly straining for one last glimpse voice choked and fading trying to reassure blood spreading and staining and thick hit the artery bleeding out nothing to do but wait but he tries anyway

-_no don't_-)

_"John!"_

The shout is so uncharacteristic he actually jumps, but it's enough to steady him and bring the world a little into focus again. He looks up to find the British Government himself standing there. Mycroft is very pale and his mouth is so thin it looks like he doesn't have one at all, and it seems that John isn't the only one in need of a chair. But of course Mycroft Holmes will not allow himself to topple- too much is riding on him, after all, and what will happen if he does?

Catastrophe, that's what.

He stumbles slightly but those fingers haven't left off of their clutching his arm and he steadies. It does nothing to help curb his tongue, however, and he finds himself speaking before he's aware of what it it he's saying. "I hate them. _I hate them both_."

Something in Mycroft's expression twists and again it takes John a long moment to figure out what has hurt him. '_Hospital, right...'_

"It's because of you he's alive at all, John."

He could only save one of them at that aquarium. He knows this logically and intellectually, _knows_ that Mary's wound was mortal, but the guilt is still roiling sickly in his stomach knowing that he left her side to try and help Sherlock. It's a doctor's duty to help those who can be saved first, and he did that, but he doesn't have to be a genius to understand what happened.

_'Mary tried to save Sherlock's life. But her sacrifice may not even be worth anything, he may not make it.'_

John may very well lose them both.

It's dumb chance that the bullet that Mary jumped in front of went right through her and into Sherlock. The only saving grace is that its downward projection missed his heart and aorta, but it's left enough of a mess that it still doesn't look good.

How many times can one man be shot before it's one time too many? Sometimes John thinks that Sherlock is a walking miracle with all of the close shaves over the years, and for all his brilliance he has the detective can't out-talk a gun.

Case in point.

A surgeon comes out to the hallway and approaches them. He focuses on Mycroft. His words are soft and assured but John recognizes too many of the medical terms to be fooled. Sherlock is stable for now, but there's so many factors still at play he may not make it through the next twenty-four hours. Mycroft is given permission to go in and see him, but when he looks back at John, all John can do is shake his head.

He can't face that. Not right now.

He turns a bit unsteadily on his heel and goes to find a bathroom to wash the blood off his hands. Mary's and Sherlock's blood, mingled together.

He'll have to make a trip to the morgue and formally identify Mary's body before too long, and he nearly burns himself with how hot he makes the water as he tries to scrub his skin clean. Identify Mary, and then go home and try to comfort the baby girl at home who no longer has a mother. As he finally finishes drying his hands, he thinks again of the aquarium; of Sherlock's obvious inability to keep from pushing a suspect into action, of Mary's last sacrifice, and abruptly he's furious. Furious like he had been after Sherlock's return. Furious like he'd been after he had discovered Mary's deception. Over and over again his life has been up heaved and turned around, whether by a bullet or a criminal mastermind, and this time it's cost too much.

He'd prayed in the sands of Afghanistan for God to save his life. Right now, though, he can't bring himself to pray at all.

He can't shove the blame to one or the other. One shouldn't think ill of the dead, but neither can he hold onto his anger with Sherlock. Not with the man currently lying hooked up to a hospital bed.

_What have I ever done, my whole life, to deserve you?_

The worst thing is that initially Sherlock was awake as John worked on stabilizing him. He remembers the detective's pale eyes and he could see the guilt there even then- Sherlock was aware of what he'd done, of what Mary had done, and he hadn't asked for forgiveness.

He'd blamed himself, long before John had the capability to do so.

And abruptly the anger is gone, leaving a yawning emptiness that leaves John dizzy again. He braces his hands on the sides of the sink and hunches over to steady himself, sickened by the realization that in those last few seconds before Sherlock lost consciousness the detective wasn't entirely sure he should be allowed to wake up again.

John's torn between the two people he's loved most in the entire world, adrift between the pain of his wife's violent death and the agony of seeing Sherlock slipping away from him _again_.

And this time he's not sure he knows how to swim.


End file.
